


Fight for it

by TheKitteh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, cursing, mentiones of physical injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKitteh/pseuds/TheKitteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're ona constant "push and pull" - with way more of the push, than the pull - and after another fight, another fist thrown, Sam's tired of it all. Of the fighting, of the pain they inflict on one another, of the low blows and the ache within him that just won't go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight for it

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers throughout Season 8 and also for the unaired episode 8x10 (based on the promo), so please be advised.

He was always dangerous, Sam’s brother, all razor-sharp edges and quick fingers, thick fingers that constantly itch to curl around blades and guns alike. He’s even more all of that now, after a year of nothing but fighting, of months filled with muck and the smell of blood; after countless hours that toned him into their father’s dream come true, a perfect weapon. When he fought now, it was with a precision he didn’t posses before, with a _grace_ that left Sam nervous, confused and maybe just the tiniest bit nauseous.

Because it was like learning his brother all over again and there weren’t that many things that unsettled Sam more.

Especially when the learning process involved hurting each other and hurling fists more often than not, clashing together hot and violent over the smallest and most insignificant things. And fuck if Sam  - for all his brains and wit - knew what word could ever describe to a damn T what happened when something uglier rose between them. _Disaster_ , that one seemed close, but still not enough.

And Sam’s tired of it all.

So, _so_ tired.

Of the fighting, of the constant ache inside, of his bloodied knuckles and of bruises that swelled on top of Dean’s cheek. OfAmelia _’s_ name being a dull blade that tore everything in its wake, of Benny being the goddamn salt in a fresh wound, of waiting for a fallout every fucking moment and he just wants it to stop.

He just wants his brother back.

But the year between left a gap so deep between them that they couldn’t cross over, and while Sam knew – he believed, he had to believe in that, because it was truly all he got left – that they both wanted the same thing, he more often than not wondered if it was worth all it cost.

Purgatory left Dean sharp, deadly and stripped raw to the bone.

And even if he was the one left topside, Purgatory left Sam stretched thin, too thin for wear and exhausted.

Neither of them could go on like this forever, constantly exchanging hits and punches, and trying to ignore the bloody results. They were going to crash and burn sooner or later – sooner, most probably, because that was how things went for them - and Sam didn’t know anymore if he actually dreaded or awaited the inevitable.

And then a hunt went bad, and Christ, wasn’t that putting it _mildly_ , and it was way over midnight when he found himself sitting on of the beds, hands shaking for one reason too many and mouth dry, Dean locked up in the bathroom.

Trying to stitch himself up, his whole damn side, with bloodied, dirty fingers, and they both knew he would be doing a shitty job but _still_ Dean locked the goddamn door behind him, because they were too distant to demand help. The sick irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. _His brother_ – the one who went to Hell for him -  locked himself out and _Sam_ – who went to Hell for said brother – was sitting here, not even trying to pick the lock and force his help with the patching up.

Jesus Christ, if that didn’t speak volumes of how fucked up things have become them, he didn’t know what did.

So Sam took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose and remained seated. The bedding is as awful as in every other motel they ever stayed in, thin and scratchy and it will surely irritate his skin later on. The wallpaper’s color reminds him of vomit, the light from the lamps is piss-poor and how fucked up Sam became over the years to not even mind it anymore. The only noise comes from behind the closed bathroom door, the faint hum of running water and an occasional, angered grumble. Other than that, oh and the strange, uneven _thump tha-thump thump_ of his own heart, it’s quiet. It’s a strained, uneasy kind of quiet. He waits for the soft click of the lock, waits for Dean to come out so he can take his turn and wash the blood and dirt away.

When the bathroom door finally opens, his head jerks up, his eyes immediately finding his brother’s all too familiar frame.

Dean’s got nothing more than his old, dirty jeans on. Their frayed edges falling onto bare feet and actually he looks worse than Sam actually remembered. His right side is bruised, a magnificent display of colors from purples to yellow, and swollen, the stitches uneven and far too scarce to hold the skin together through the night. They’ll give and he’ll bleed through the thin gauze, onto the paper-thin sheets and in the morning Dean won’t demand Sam to stitch him up, he’ll do it by himself all over again.

He didn’t shower, not yet, his chest and arms are still dirty, bloodied and it causes Sam’s throat to tighten unpleasantly. His left hand reaches out, more muscle memory than actual intent, fingers catching on the worn out loop of Dean’s jeans as his brother tries to walk by.

His breathing stops along with Dean’s steps, as he pulls his brother into the shaky v of his legs. He keeps his gaze on the sharp line of Dean’s hip – denim clad and all too familiar – but his vision blurs steadily and his fingers curl even more on the small hoop of thick fabric.

His body trembles and he knows Dean can feel it.

Dean smells of that cheap whisky he used to clean his wounds, blood and sweat, it rolls off of his body along with a steady wave of heat, washes over every sense and Sam’s way past the point of caring. His brother’s skin feel too hot, too sticky as he rests his forehead against the flat, strong muscles of Dean’s stomach and forces himself to breathe.

“It’s not worth it anymore, is it?” His voice sounds like it’s not his anymore, tight and strained, the words burning their way through his throat and he can feel the way Dean tenses.

He’s not sure what exactly is he asking, but that doesn’t matter, Dean knows anyway. At least that’s a certainty he still has.

The moment stretches between them and in the peripheral he can see Dean’s fingers restlessly clenching and unclenching, unsure if to push or pull or hit. Sam’s right hand rests on his knee and it’s sweaty and damp, unsure what to do.

Finally Dean shifts his weight from one leg to another and the scarce hair visible above the line of his jeans tickle Sam’s nose. “It is,” Dean’s reply is flat and holds no conviction, no emotion at all.

The sound that escapes Sam is something between a hysterical laugh and anguished sob. “Stop fucking lying to me, Dean. We’ve been nothing…we … dammit Dean, I-I just can’t.” He stumbles over his words and his fingers tighten their hold on that thin strip of denim. “I hate hurting you, I hate constantly _getting_ hurt by you and fuck, this isn’t worth what it takes anymore.”

The skin on Dean’s stomach turns damp from his breath when Sam continues quietly, “I’m tired.”

He doesn’t notice the slow, languid move of his brother’s hands so when strong fingers tangle in his hair, Sam looks up in surprise. Dean’s lips are still set in a firm, flat line, his eyes are still shadowed more than not, but he tucks a few of the longer strands behind Sam’s ears. His fingers twirl there for a while much longer, their tips brushing ever so and Sam finds the gesture oddly sweet and confusing. It’s been too long, too many months have passes  since Dean reached out to him like _this_ and it causes something to tighten within him. His chin quivers ever so against the flat, strong plane of his brother’s stomach.

“Yeah,” Dean’s fingers finally come to a rest, thumbs at Sam’s temples before he continues, “I really do know how to hurt you the most.”

Sam’s breath hitches at the impassive tone of voice and he feels that all too familiar flare of anger spark deep within him. It spread quick and sure and he’s literally trembling with the sudden urge to plant his brother one. Fuck it, he’s trying here, clumsily but still, and Dean’s taking this in a fucking stroll, like it’s nothing ,like _Sam’s_ nothing and…

He forces himself to uncurl his fingers and begins to move away. They don’t need any more violence today, but he’d be damned if he allows his brother to fuck with him like this. Dean presses his fingers into his scalp, stopping and Sam can feel his lips twist in a snarl.

“Well fuck you very much too ,Dean.”

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean’s eyes darken as he holds his little brother in place, “You’re really fucking stupid about this, aren’t you?”

The hell…?

The anger is wiped out like a weak flame and he stares in disbelief at the anguish etched onto Dean’s face. His brother shifts uncomfortably and Sam breathes in whisky fumes, his mind coming to a screeching halt. “W-what?”

Deans’ fingers press into his skull again, stronger than before and the pressure is rather enjoyable. He can feel a certain kind of darkness seep out of him as the pressure comes and goes, the tight cold knot in his stomach uncoiling painfully slow. He almost misses the words when Dean mutters under his breath, angry that he has to say them at all. “All the time… in Purgatory, and every other goddamn time, it’s always been you.”

But it’s impossible for him to go on cryptic alone, when there’s this huge gaping hole inside of him. They’ve bled because of each other one time too many for enigmatic words to patch it up just like that. Dean’s thumbs brush from his temples to the outer corners of his eyes, back and forth. Confusing the shit out of him and Sam can only stare. “I know I’ve been a shitty brother. And fuck if I know how to stop.”

“Dean, man, you’re… damn, I need you to give me _something_ here.” Again it’s weary that crashes over Sam  as Dean _twitches_ uncomfortably against him. “One day you’re … well, a jerk, but that’s kinda normal, talking about braiding my fucking hair and next time you… you…”. His hands tighten into fists, nails digging into the inside of his palms as he remembers. He scrambles for the remains of anger that still flicker somewhere within him.

Because it’s still too raw, too much to even think about it and Dean fucking knows it.

“Yeah. Dickhead move on my part.”

Sam glares up at Dean and the next thing he knows is that his both hands are suddenly clenching over the sharp lines of Dean’s hips. “So what, you admit it and think everything’s going to be just fine? You think you can fuck around with me and only start talking when _Cas_ tells you to? You think you can say it’s always about me and it will fix everything?”. His words are an angry slur, they tumble thick and heavy from his lips, but God’ his witness, Dean deserved every one of them.

Them, a fist to his face, a fierce shake and damn it all if Sam knows what else.

Dean’s still looking down at him and maybe he can keep his face void of all emotions, he can’t keep his eyes sheltered as well. Blunt nails dig into his skull for a brief second and Sam keeps his eyes focused on Dean’s.

Challenging, stubborn, demanding.

“You stupid fuck,” Dean hisses, angry now, and good, it’s good, they both know how to work with particular emotion, “I _meant_ it when I said I want you next to me, why can’t you get it through that thick skull of yours?”

“Well maybe I don’t?” Sam snaps back, fingers digging in deeper and he’ll leave bruises, good, he won’t be sorry. “And maybe I _meant_ it when I said I want out, when I said that I want normal…” and then Dean snorts, eyes flashing in the poor light.

“Oh yeah, and how normal was _really_ working out for you, Sam?”

Sam sucks in his breath and the illusion that they can still communicate crashes around him. Dean’s words stinging like a slap or a shower of ice-cold water and his heart clenches. Again. They’re at it again, stabbing where it hurts the most and holding onto each other for dear life in the same time.

“Jesus Christ, Dean, listen to us!”

“Oh I’m listening all right...”

“No, no, you’re not, and we… dammit Dean, we can’t hold _one_ conversation without…turning it into _this_!” He pulls away from his brother, from his persistent fingers and he spreads his own hands for emphasis. “And you fucking dare to tell me this is worth it?!”

And with a low, angry growl – and fuck it all if Sam didn’t think that only happened in bad literature - Dean _finally_ moves.

Sam expected a fist to his jaw, a strong push at least.

He didn’t expect fingers curling in the collar of his shirt, hauling him up and dry, chapped lips slamming onto his.

_Oh._

It’s a good thing that Dean’s hold on him is as sure and steady as always, because Sam’s not really sure his knees could support his full weight right now. It’s nothing pretty, this kiss, it’s harsh and too fast, a sweep of tongue and clash of teeth and it’s over in a blink of an eye.

It still leaves Sam wide-eyed and kind of breathless, which makes him think _wow, way too long_.

“You little shit,” Dean gives him a little shake for good measure, his breath hot and heavy over Sam’s face, “I _am_ going to hurt you again. And dammit, you’re going to hurt me, Sam, because that’s what we fucking _do_. And yeah, it’s worth it because it’s _you_ , you stupid son of a bitch!”

His lips tingle in an all too familiar way – Christ, he almost forgot how it felt – but it’s still not enough to douse the remains of the anger he held on so tightly or the hurt he felt for so long. And he knows he’s going to ruin this, because Dean gave much more than he ever imagined, but Sam’s . “And yet you still have _Benny._ ”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath; Sam’s sure this is it, this is where his brother gives in and he awaits the punch. But Dean releases the death grip on his shirt, slips his hands to Sam’s dirty hair once more. Fingers thread through strands, press ever so and his eyes close upon instinct.

“Yeah…I have Benny.” Dean’s voice is down to a coarse whisper, “If you look at it that way you can say I got Cas as well.”

He’s right. Dean got a first class to Purgatory and got out with two supernatural beings having his back. And Sam.., Sam’s got no one. He let Amelia go, he doesn’t know how to reconnect with Cas, and now Dean is… Dean’s … He opens his eyes, sees his brother’s face up close and blinks in surprise.

“But I only ever wanted to be with my _brother_ , Sammy.”

There’s a flash of a pained truth in the green of Dean’s eyes, long enough for Sam to catch it, before Dean tries to straighten. He winces as the muscles in his right side pull at the ugly stitches and Sam thinks, _yeah, yeah, ok, hold the fuck on_ because he understands the implication _._

His hands are way faster than his mind, thank you God and when he blinks he sees them on both sides of Dean’s face.  Pulls him down, thumbs sliding over the apples of Dean’s cheeks.  He knows that nothing is ever fixed with a kiss, but damn if he didn’t miss it.

Damn if he won’t take as much as he can right now.

“Sam…”, Dean’s breath is hot and heavy over his mouth.

“Just… just give me a moment. Give me this.”

And Dean does.

He kisses Sam like he used to _before_ ; a smooth slide of lips over lips, a little nip, a lazy lick. Like finally coming home. Dean’s stubble scratches in an all too familiar way, a small burn and Sam wants to rub his face against the coarse hair, feel the sting and etch it onto his skin. Dean’s hands hold him in place or move his head the way his brother wants to and the easiness causes a ridiculously happy bubble to burst deep within him.

He grins into the kiss, breaks it off in process and feels Dean huff in annoyance, completely fake and overdone, “You’re such a woman, Sammy.”

It’s not a whole bridge, but it’s laying down the first plank, Sam thinks as this Dean moves away, his mouth red and slick and Jesus Christ, Sam missed this as much as everything else. He watches his brother reach for a clean shirt, observes the pull and glide of muscles under bruised skin and finally knows what’ll happen next.

“Wait, wait.” He pushes himself off the bed, finally feels alright in his skin and reaches out for the shirt. “Lemme.”

Dean keeps his face neutral, cool, but his eyes seem brighter than they were in the last few weeks. “Playing dress up now, Samantha?”

Another plank, another step and Sam could swear his heart missed its beat once or twice already. It makes his chest feel strangely large.

“Your stitching is crappy, man.” Sam shrugs and it’s an easy, casual move, “You’re gonna bleed through the sheets. Come on, I’ll patch you up.”

Dean sighs – the sound loud and Sam’s not buying it for a split of second – and shakes his head, “Seriously, I’m good.”

“ _Dean._ ”

“Christ, anything to shut you up,” he gives in, throws him the kit and then his lips twist in an all too familiar smirk,  “Just hurry up, miss Nightingale.”

The bulb in the bathroom gives a light barely better than the one in the room, it flickers on and off and its buzz could start a headache. There’s the half-empty bottle of whisky on the sink, a bloodstained towel on the floor. The needle is a bit blunt already, the thread old and fraying and the wounds will scar, leave long, vicious marks on Dean’s body.

For the first time in weeks, Sam notices, his hands aren’t shaking and his brother is a warm and solid presence, pressed hip to ankle to him in the tiny, ugly bathroom.

He breathes in the damp air, takes a swig from the bottle and thinks that even if they crash and burn tomorrow, they’re more than ok tonight. They’re far from fixed, they’re far from forgiving – hell, he’s still mad for the stunt Dean pulled – but Dean was right.

Whatever it is, this… this thing between them?

It’s always worth the fight.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr


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